


i'm sorry, i love you

by softambrollins



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Apologies, Bargaining, Begging, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 00:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16397741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softambrollins/pseuds/softambrollins
Summary: "You can't give me what I want, Seth," Dean says, voice hollow now."Why not?" he asks again, but it's helpless, it's right on the verge of him breaking down again."Because it's your fucking fault," he says, looking him right in the eyes, each word aimed right at him like a shard of glass to the heart.





	i'm sorry, i love you

**Author's Note:**

> Post-RAW October 22nd. This is just me trying to deal with the most emotionally exhausting week I've had in over two years.

He can't even speak as he walks up the ramp. Maybe he's still in shock. Maybe he's never not going to be in shock. Maybe his body just doesn't know how to function anymore. Maybe everything's just shutting down.

But his throat hurts. On the inside, on the outside. He can almost still feel Dean's hands wrapped around his neck. He reaches up and presses his own fingers to his skin. There are probably bruises. Fingerprint marks. There are bruises all over him. He'll never get rid of them. 

He ignores everyone he passes by, not even really registering the concerned faces, someone telling him he needs to go see the trainer — He feels barely real. Like he's a ghost or a shadow. Like he's stuck in some nightmare world where everything is wrong, so, so wrong, and he can't get out, he can't do anything about it. He wants to scream, but no sound can escape his throat.

He ignores it all, heads straight for the locker room. For his phone. 

He grasps it in both hands, leaning back against the lockers for support. His vision's blurry. His head is still swimming from hitting the concrete floor. Tears are falling onto the screen as he looks at it, clouding it up. He didn't even realise he was still crying. Maybe he never really stopped. He reaches up, furiously wipes the back of his hand over his eyes. It feels like a dream, where your brain keeps telling yourself to do something, just do it, but your hands, your body won't cooperate.

He finally manages to open his contacts, right near the top.

_Ambrose._

He brushes a wet streak across his name with his thumb.

He realises that the tag titles are sitting on the bench next to him now. Someone must've brought them in. He doesn't want anything to do with them. Doesn't want to touch them. Doesn't want to look at them. Can't see anything else but Dean throwing them in his face, saying that they're what's really important to him.

He hits the green call button, brings it up to his ear. His other hand's shaking so badly. He brings it up to rest against his face, grabbing a tight fistful of hair with it. Squeezes his eyes shut.

He waits, silently. He doesn't even know where Dean's phone is. Probably in his car. He could be miles away from here by now.

Rings once, twice. Then it goes to voicemail.

He finally lets out a long, shuddering breath, and the world snaps back into focus all around him. His own weight's suddenly too much for him and he slowly slides down the row of lockers, body aching and protesting as he hits the cold, hard floor.

His breath comes in ragged, unsteady gasps after that. He just cries down the line for a moment, then another.

Then, it just bursts out of his lungs, more sob than words, "Please, Dean. Please..."

The recording cuts off.

*

He spends the next day curled up under the covers in a hotel room, hiding from the whole damn world. He's probably being a fucking coward, he's probably everything Dean thinks he is, but he can't — he _can't._

He should be home. He's dodging calls from his mom. She's worried, but he can't talk to her. He can't do it. If he starts talking, he's going to fall apart completely and he'll never be able to put himself back together again. Lots of people are worried, apparently. He doesn't care about any of them. He only cares about one person. 

He only answers when Roman calls, because it's _Roman_. 

"He's not picking up," is the first thing he says. He called Dean first; of course he did. He can't blame him. Seth called him first too.

Seth nods, then makes an attempt at acknowledging it verbally.

"You sound terrible," Roman says, sounding worried.

" _Don't_ — please," Seth says, hoarse, urgent. "This isn't — this isn't on you. I'll find him. I'll fix it."

" _Seth_ ," Roman says quietly, patiently. "You're hurt. You've been through absolute hell —"

"Please, Roman, _please_. You need to be with your family. Just do that for me, okay? I'll handle this." Literally nothing coming out of his mouth sounds anywhere near convincing, but he's not letting Roman getting involved in this, not now, not like this. 

"They're not the only family I have, you know?" he replies. "But just — find him, okay? Kick his ass if you have to. Just bring him home."

Seth lets out a shaky breath. "Yeah, I will. I promise."

When he hangs up, he has to struggle not to start crying again, because he's sure he just lied to Roman. He can't fix this. He can't save any of them. Instead, he lets out a silent scream into his pillow.

*

It's two days later when Seth knocks on a hotel room door in Vegas. It looks like he's been here for a while, but he hasn't been home. He guesses Dean's avoiding answering questions for as long as possible too.

Dean doesn't even look that surprised to see him when he opens the door, like he figured he'd turn up sooner or later.

"How'd you find me?" is all he says, and then "Fuckin' twitter" in the same breath.

He drops back back down on the bed carelessly, taking a swig of the beer in his hand.

Seth just stands there, staring at him. It still feels like he hasn't slept in weeks; his eyes have been red and bloodshot for days. He hasn't been eating much; he's probably lost some weight. His face looks pale and thin and like someone else's when he looks at himself in the mirror. Which he hasn't done too often since Monday, to be fair. His body feels just as wrecked as before, but that pain's been dulled by the wreck that's churning inside of him.

Dean looks exactly like he did when he was on top of him, pinning him down to the mat, laying into him with stiff, heavy blows. Fucking miserable.

"Not fucking here to say anything?" he says after a minute. "That's new."

Seth just levels him with more silence.

"If you tell me that Roman went anywhere trying to find me, I'm gonna fly to Florida and punch him in the face, I don't care —" 

He has to meet that with an answer. "He's home," he tells him. "He's good."

"Really not gonna say anything else?" Dean says, almost amused.

Seth shakes his head.

And that's all he needs, really. Dean Ambrose has never been a patient man, and this version in front of him, whatever he's become, is apparently even less so.

Dean gets to his feet, steps right into his space.

"I'm not here to talk," Seth tells him honestly, evenly. "You don't want me to talk. So, I'll just say this — whatever you want, I'll give it to you."

Dean just gives him a questioning look. Almost daring.

"Want to beat the shit out of me again? Do it. Want me to give up the titles? I'll do it right now. I'll never fight for a title ever again, if that's what you want —" 

"Bullshit," Dean says, clipped. "You'd never do that."

"Why not?" Seth says, just feeling exhausted. In his soul.

"Because that's all you want. To be the best in the world," he says mockingly. "To prove to everyone that you're worth a damn. Because that's how fucked-up you are — you're only ever gonna be what other people think you are."

Seth shakes his head, trying to ignore Dean's pointed cruelty. He's not gonna make him give up and leave. No matter what he says. "You're _wrong_. That's not all I want. There's only one thing I want."

"Don't fucking say that," Dean says, a hair away from angry now. "You can't have that. _We_ can't have that. Not ever again."

"Well, tell me, then," Seth says, half-pleading, half-furious. "What do you want from me? Want me to beg? Want me to get on my knees? I'm not leaving, so tell me what you want."

"What if I want _this_?" Dean says, getting really, really close now, close enough to kiss. He reaches one hand up, gently rests it on his cheek, then slowly drags it down, over his neck then stopping at the centre of his chest, thumb stroking over his exposed collarbone. Seth feels his entire body almost involuntary flinch away from Dean's touch and he resists it, but Dean feels his urge too from the way his eyes spark with some unnamed emotion — somewhere in between surprise and shame — for the first time. 

He pulls away, takes a step back, looks down at his own hand almost in wonder. He curls it into a fist. Then he lets out a kind of sick, ugly laugh.

Seth tries to make his heart rate return to normal. "No, you don't," he tells him regretfully. "You could've had this a long time ago. But it wasn't enough. It's not enough."

"You can't give me what I want, Seth," Dean says, voice hollow now. 

"Why not?" he asks again, but it's helpless, it's right on the verge of him breaking down again. 

"Because it's your fucking fault," he says, looking him right in the eyes, each word aimed right at him like a shard of glass to the heart. 

"I know, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that —" 

Three words. Seth had just pulled him back in close for another hug and had just said it right against his ear. In the heat of the moment. Because he needed to, he needed Dean to know that. And then everything changed in one moment. Maybe he thought he was trying to manipulate him again, and Seth can't blame him for that. Maybe he just couldn't handle it on that night. Maybe he just didn't believe him. Seth's been too good of a liar for too long.

He doesn't know why the words _I'm sorry_ and _I love you_ are always so tangled up for him in his head and in his chest. It feels like he always says the wrong one instead. It's like he's reaching for one of them blindly in the dark and the other slips out of his mouth. Maybe that's why he didn't say either for so long. 

"It's not just that, Seth," he says scathingly. "It's _everything_. It's all your fucking fault." 

Seth doesn't say anything, just nods, tears burning in his eyes, looks down at the floor. This is worse than any beating he could ever get at Dean's hands. Maybe this is what he needs. To hurt him until the wounds are irreparable. 

"It's your fault, Seth," he breathes again. "It's your fault that I'm _like this_. It's your fault for fucking leaving me, for _breaking_ me. It's your fault for wanting this back. For worming your way back into my fucking heart. For making me think that I could put the fucking pieces back together. That I could _have_ this. It's _your fault_ that it's fucking _gone_ all over again."

Seth just looks at him, blinking through tears, nods absently again.

Dean's face twists again with anguish and when the last words come out, they're drenched in utter despair and heartbreak.

"I just feel like I'm fucking cursed. Everyone just fucking _leaves_ —"

His voice cracks.

Dean just stops, eyes wide and wild, and then stumbles backwards like just getting the words out took all the fight out of him with them, and just collapses back onto the bed, head in his hands. He looks like his entire body's shaking uncontrollably.

Seth finally takes a few steps forward closer to him. When he reaches right in front of him, he lets himself fall to his knees on the carpet in between Dean's legs. Tentatively reaches up and touches one hand to his jean-clad knee, rests his cheek against the other. Closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. They just stay there for a while. Dean doesn't try to push him away, so he's not moving. 

Eventually, he feels Dean grow still, just taking in heavy lungfuls of air. 

"It's not your fault," Seth tells him gently. "I'm not going anywhere."

Then, that's when Dean breaks. It feels like something _literally_ breaks inside him from the awful sound he makes. The crumbling walls inside finally being torn wide open, letting the flood waters drown him. The last week, the last year, the last four years, his whole life — everything he's had to keep buried inside, everything he's had to patch up with duct tape and dental floss in motel bathrooms, everything he's had to force down deeper by throwing punches at everything in his way, always moving forward. Because otherwise the weight of it would kill him.

Seth rises to his feet, cradles Dean's head tightly to his chest, both hands resting on the back of his neck, holds on for dear life.

He sounds like a wounded animal. He tries pushing him away now, but it's weak, half-hearted, and Seth just holds on to him, weathers the storm, until Dean's just clinging back on to him, body curled into his chest, fingers desperately clutching at his shirt. 

"I'm sorry," Dean mutters into his chest, like it's been ripped out of him too.

Seth presses his face against the top of Dean's head, lips brushing his hair. "I know, it's okay."

"I love you," he says now, and he's holding back on to Seth just as tight. "Please, _please…_ "

"I know, I know, it's okay, I'm right here, I love you…" he tells him, like a litany.

Dean lets out a small whimper as he says it. He doesn't let go for a long, long time.


End file.
